City of Light
by Weiila
Summary: Pseudo-follow-up to Introspective Hero. During and post Jak X. Krew left one last gift to his daughter, to either help her cement her power or protect her from Mizo's wrath. Now that she stands victorious after the championship, she collects that gift to use as she sees fit in her growing empire. Dark themes.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: O hai reader. So I tolly said I wouldn't write a sequel to _Introspective Hero_, didn't I? Well joke's on me! Well, kinda. This is more of a short story set in the same universe, as there will be very little focus on Jak and Daxter's romance. _

_If you don't feel like slogging through 250k+ words of prequel, here's the gist of it:_

_Jak and Daxter are stupidly much in love, even though Jak has lingering issues with touching due to his history._

_Damas is alive and figured out that Jak is his son._

_There are a whole lotta former KGs living in Spargus, commonly referred to as "exes." One of them, Zem, was a prison guard while Jak was held captive by Baron Praxis, and Zem has lived with the guilt of what he did during that time ever since. He'll have a bit of a role later on, but he's not super important. Zem is unable to walk properly, from being tortured by another former prison guard._

* * *

><p><span>City of Light<span>

Kras City just never shut up. If there weren't any races going on at the current time, there were always reruns being played from radios and TVs, heard through open windows and from street corners. Widescreen TVs flashed images of cars interspersed with commercials and G. T. Blitz' grinning face in a never ending cycle. And where there weren't TVs, there were blinking neon lights advertising every useless thing the human mind could imagine.

It gave Sig a headache after just a few minutes, but he knew he had to get through it for the time being. Just taking one step outside in this neon cesspit made him long for the hot, wide open sea of sand he hailed from. But he had a job to do that was far more important than his own wishes – a familiar comfort that left a bitter taste in his mouth if he dwelled on it for too long, but he pushed it aside with the knowledge that he was in Kras to help his friends.

And speaking of which…

Sig had always had the strength and size to move pretty much anywhere without fear. Still, he kept his eyes (normal and mechanical alike) open – Kras could be dangerous at any time of the day, and right now it was near midnight _and_ he was heading right into the seedier parts of the town. It wasn't far less dangerous than a metal head den in broad daylight.

He could feel the suspicious eyes following him from the shadows of the fluttering streetlights, but nobody approached him as he headed through the maze of streets and back alleys. His size and aura of confidence helped, as did his change into his armor made of metal head skulls. A knife wielding moron would have to be more than usually drunk or high to jump somebody like that.

Sig walked with consciously heavy steps, too, making sure everyone knew he was there and not afraid to let them know. It told them very clearly that he knew that they were there, too.

Some may even recognize him from a few years back, when he was Krew's top dog. Top bloodhound.

Sig gritted his teeth at the uninvited thought and shoved it out of his mind, focusing on moving ever deeper into the heart of Kras – not at its center, but to the side, tucked away near the harbor where it would be easy to ship the cars for mainland races. Mizo may or may not be here somewhere. That wasn't Sig's business right then.

It would have been safer, and more subtle, to just send a message and meet up somewhere. But Sig had a second reason for going, and that was to send a message that the opposing team weren't scared. And more importantly, he knew Jak and the others had absolutely no reason to come here. There was no risk of something stupid like them noticing him having a meeting with the person he sought, or somebody seeing his call history on his communicator for some reason. He might be overly paranoid – but he had good reason.

He couldn't let them find out about this. Not about what he had done to them.

By the middle of a wide street was a line of garage doors. In an alley by the edge of them was a closed door, which Sig located after some squinting into the dimly lit way. The few pedestrians who were about pretended not to look at him, then quickly averted their eyes as he went into the alley.

He knocked hard on the door several times, then waited. Out in the street, people and cars kept drifting past.

After a few seconds, the door opened. Common crook sense (Jinx' proverb) would have dictated that it should have opened just an inch, or that the small window on it should've been used to communicate with the visitor. But Mizo had owned the city for years, and his men knew that even a Wastelander in full armor was out of his element here. So the door swung wide open, and the man Sig recognized as Edje casually leant against the frame. Playing with a knife, of course.

In the background, thugs and mechanics – and combinations of it – glared dangerously to make sure they were obvious backup. There was more than one click of a gun being prepared.

Sig just folded his arms, unblinking.

"Whaddaya want, Spiky?" Edje drawled.

"Kleiver," Sig countered.

Edje sneered, and so did many of the crooks behind him.

"An' what's it to ya?" he demanded.

"What's goin' on here?" came Kleiver's voice from the back.

Edje's face scrounged up in frustration, but he stepped back with a glare at the huge man lumbering out behind a car and across the floor. Behind him, a ragged-looking, dark-skinned man with his black hair in a ponytail glared after him, leaning on the car. Sig thought he looked familiar, but didn't consider it too long.

"Heh! 'ello nipper-watcher," Kleiver said, grinning as he saw who it was. "Come to join the winning team?"

Sig shook his head.

"Spargus business," he said.

The grin fell off of Kleiver's face immediately.

"Why didn't ya say so?" he growled. Looking over his shoulder, he shouted, "Oi! You better have everythin' fixed when I get back, ya mincemeat!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…" the dark-skinned man grunted back and waved a wrench goodbye before clumsily moving down behind the car again. He didn't seem to be able to walk right. A memory sparked in Sig's mind, but he was a bit too focused on what he was doing.

Playing deaf to Edje's complaints – letting out that they could get orders from Mizo at any moment, and from the way Kleiver's face darkened he hadn't wanted that brought up even though it wasn't much of a mystery – Kleiver followed Sig out into the night air.

They found themselves an open, scruffy and mostly empty restaurant and ordered beers just to keep the waitresses from muttering. The girls and the bartender listened in, of course, but they got nothing for their trouble. The two Wastelanders spoke in too low voices, and with such thick Spargan dialects, that it was impossible for an outsider to catch anything sensible.

Sig knew that the others wouldn't have believed for a second what he was doing. It wasn't just meeting with Kleiver, who was competition, who was an enemy. Sig was spilling the whole story.

They had agreed, long before Sig arrived to help, that they wouldn't tell anybody that they were poisoned. If it got out, Mizo could very well find a way to delay the final race, or try to find and destroy the antidote.

However, Jak and the others' situation was far more dire than they themselves knew. That was why Sig was there in the restaurant, telling Kleiver about the poison. And telling him things that Jak and the Havenites didn't have a clue about.

And in that moment, listening to Sig speaking low and quick, Kleiver was no longer an enemy on the race track. He wasn't a mercenary hired by Mizo because he just saw it as a laugh – and Damas had shrugged his shoulders and said that he knew Jak could handle the competition so he allowed it… because Damas didn't know about the poison either. Jak couldn't bear to tell Damas his son was hanging on a thin line, not from something so chilling, something that couldn't be fought.

But in that moment, Kleiver became a Wastelander again.

And Kleiver didn't like hearing it. And he liked the rest even less.

"That little snake!"

Kleiver slammed his fist so hard into the table that the two mostly untouched drinks tipped over and spilled across the tablecloth. Not that the watery alcohol made the cloth that much dirtier. The waitresses and bartender jumped a mile.

Sig clenched his jaw. His reaction had been more subdued, but only because he'd let Rayn finish her explanation. It had helped a little that he'd suspected the truth from the very beginning.

She'd known about the poison. But there was a reason she told Sig so, and that kept him from lashing out at her.

"She's got 'em all where she wants them," Sig said. He grabbed Kleiver's arm as the man was about to stand, murder in his eyes. Kleiver could take fair fights, and even ones with a little cheating, as long as the opposition deserved it. The racing had been a fun distraction, but it was no longer amusing. Not when this filth had been bared. "Kleiver, shut up for a sec! There ain't no antidote!"

The huge man blinked. Then his lips drew back in a growl and he thumped back in his seat, staring at the other Wastelander.

"Say _whot_?" Kleiver hoarsely demanded.

Sig could easily imagine that his own initial thoughts were currently going through Kleiver's head as well. At the front was a very, very upset King of Spargus. And Kleiver didn't even know exactly why Jak was so important to Damas, though he may have guessed somewhat right. The man wasn't as stupid as he looked.

"Krew never made enough," Sig said, rubbing his forehead. "Didn'a surprise me. He wouldn't care."

Kleiver said nothing for a moment.

"That's it, then?" he darkly said. "It takes too long to brew. They're dead."

"No. He made a little of it, enough for one person. Just in case Rayn got poisoned. She can use that as a base to cook up more in time. It should work."

Kleiver's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Why she doin' that?" he asked.

"_I know I was always a bit of a daddy's girl, but I'm not my father," she said, cradling the bottle in her hands like she feared somebody would break through the window to snatch it from her. Sig watched as she put it back in the small safe, then put the safe far beneath the floorboards, covered up the hollow, and put the floorboard back in place. Finally she pulled the carpet over it and he silently helped her put the table and chairs back on the carpet._

_All that done, she gazed up at him again._

"_I have to put you in a bit of a pressured situation, I'm afraid. But I need your help, Sig. You just have to help me save them."_

_She didn't really need to say that, and she knew it. Still, he felt like it cushioned the blow from the truth further. His anger had deflated._

"_Of course, kitten."_

Sig pushed the memory aside and shook his head.

"She's prolly not so rotten," he said. Then added, in an easier tone, "or mebbe Jak put on the charm without noticin'."

To that comment, Kleiver's ugly mug split in a sneer and he guffawed.

"She din't notice he only likes redheads, eh?" he said. Sig's lips twitched to that, but they both sobered just as quick. "Well, whatever. What's she needin'?"

"Bronze camellia," Sig said.

Pause.

"That it?" Kleiver said and grunted. "Figger. Gotta give 'er props for findin' everything else, I s'pose."

"How soon can you get it?" Sig asked.

Silence reigned for a few seconds as Kleiver thumbed his oily mustache, scowling at the table as he thought. Over by the bar, the bartender rapped his fingers against a shelf, watching impatiently via a mirror to not be too obvious. He and the waitresses could see plain as day that something very important was going on, and the inability to listen in was maddening.

"In two days if we're lucky," Kleiver finally said. He gave Sig a sharp look. "When did they chug it down?"

"'bout two weeks ago, before the championship began," Sig said, his jaw clenched.

Kleiver spat out a curse.

"Gonna be close, 'specially for the wee ones like the girls and the ungodly ex-rat."

In any other situation, Sig would've taken the opportunity to ask what exactly had happened to Veger. The former-slimeball-of-a-man-turned-depressed-Precursor had been seen for about a week clinging to Kleiver's shoulder, and then he had mysteriously vanished.

However, Sig was in no mood to find out the hopefully grisly truth.

"Can she pay for it, tho'?" Kleiver asked, eyeing the man before him. "That stuff ain't cheap, ya know that."

Sig took in a deep breath.

"I'll pay ya."

"Hoo…? She ain't coughing it up?"

No response.

"I dun like the sound'a this, Sig."

"It's all I can do now," Sig said, glaring at the wet tablecloth. Neither one of them had bothered picking up the glasses Kleiver had overturned. "She ain't a big shot yet, either. She got everythin' else."

Kleiver blew out a stinking snarl that made his mustache tremble.

"Ya make that sound like a good thing. She's got ya dancin' to her tune too. Ya get that, right?"

"It's the only shot!" If the glasses had been put back up, they would have fallen again from Sig slamming his fist into the table. One of them rolled over the edge and shattered on the floor.

The waitresses exchanged glances and quietly decided to not say or do anything at all about it.

"Okay, okay, chill yer lizards." Kleiver pulled a face as if he had to wrench out the next sentences. "I'll meet ya partway, alright? You pay sixty, I pay forty."

Sig straightened and studied the other Wastelander for a moment. Coming from Kleiver, it was a very surprising and very generous offer.

"You––"

"Ya better be right about her, ya hear me?" Kleiver stabbed the air in front of Sig's face with a thick finger. "'Cause if this comes crashing down, it'll be your fault our heads'll be on a platter." He threw up his hands. "Whot? Ya think Damas'll be any happier with the guy who got ya that Black Shade so you could suck up to Krew?"

Sig's mouth twisted into a chilling snarl, silently warning Kleiver to make any comment about how he'd said from the start that searching for Prince Mar was a waste of time. The truth about that burned on Sig's lips, but he couldn't share it. Damas had forbidden it.

Leaning back, Kleiver rolled his eyes and waved his hands in a sort of pacifying manner. It was enough to help Sig get a grip of himself and nod.

"Alright then," Sig said. His good eye darkened again. "An' don't you breathe a word about this to anybody."

Kleiver raised a meaty eyebrow at the look of Sig's face and the low, dangerous tone.

"Whut? My ass is toast too if they all croak," he said.

"Even when they're in the clear, Kleiver!" Sig growled. He leaned forwards, hands flat against the table. "She's using them all. I ain't gonna be able to look 'em in the face if they find out it's my fault."

He shook his head hard.

For a moment Kleiver watched him, taking in the scowl and tense jaw. Typically Sig, ever the big brother. Finding that he had gotten his friends into forced servitude hurt him more than he wanted to admit – and it showed all too well right then.

Their King would certainly not like it, either. Damas was proud, and Kleiver knew that few things pissed him off as much as backstabbing tactics. And Damas would not be happy to learn that his best warrior had been reduced to a racing monkey for a zealous mafia girl. It wasn't even a secret in Spargus that Jak had become much like a replacement for the son Damas had lost many years ago.

And if that best warrior/son surrogate died from poison, Kleiver very well knew that Damas would find out. And he'd have two axes to grind.

"Ya better not let nobody know it gets ya this bad, mama bear," Kleiver grimly said as he stood, but he gave Sig a light, reassuring punch on the shoulder as he passed.

Sig remained where he was for a while even after Kleiver had disappeared. Just sitting there, staring at his own reflection and the neon flashes dancing in the window glass. Until the waitresses nervously told him that it was closing time.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: "With style!" is my sister's standard response to any question along the lines of "how did they pull that off?" It fits Razer very well, doesn't it?_

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><p><span>Chapter two, Lock<span>

Two weeks after Sig and Kleiver's discussion in that dingy restaurant, they could breathe out. Nobody but Sig even knew that Kleiver was as relieved about Jak's victory as the winner's team. And Rayn had the antidote ready just in time.

As he raised his own glass in a toast together with Jak and the others, though, Sig couldn't help but feel a niggling doubt. Why had she not handed out the antidote before the race, when she could clearly see that several in the group were beginning to feel the effects? It might have blown her cover, but by then she should have known that all of them were so far invested in the race that they wouldn't back out. At least, Jak wouldn't ever have, and he was the best of them.

And how had Mizo known about the antidotes? He must have, because why else would he have grabbed and raced off with them?

Nobody else seemed to question it, but Sig could see the obvious hint. She'd laid a trap for her enemy, and made sure that Jak had to pursue him.

Manipulative to the very end, and it sat ill with Sig. But then again, she would have to be like that if she wanted to survive.

Looking at his friends helped dispel the bad feeling. All of them together, smiling, talking, relieved. Torn and Ashelin even allowed themselves to hold each other in public. Samos was as restrictive with his praise and expressions of joy as ever, but he could not mask his pride for Keira, while she with every word and motion responded with a cheerful "I told you so." Well, as much time as she had to focus on her father, at least, with how she was busy sharing the good news with Tess, whose cheers came for all of them through Keira's communicator.

Daxter was flailing about talking and laughing about how he saved Jak from Mizo's exploding car, and how Mizo's goons must be scurrying for the boats like lizrats on a sinking ship. In between that, he argued with Pecker. Of course Jak hovered close by Daxter at all times, gently giving him a push when he almost tipped off his chair. Little touches exchanged between both of them, much like Torn and Ashelin, relieved that the other was still there.

They would all go home, safe and sound.

"Sig."

He looked around and put down his glass at the sight of Rayn. She smiled warmly at him.

"So sorry that I'm late, I had to take care of a few things," she said. When his eyebrows twitched, she shook her head and added in a low voice, "Nothing to worry about."

"Hey!" Daxter hollered. "We were wondering when you'd pop in!"

Still smiling, Rayn stepped away from Sig, walking closer to Jak she thanked all of them for their help. As she spoke, she absently setting the data disk she carried on the table.

"This town will be better for it," she promised, before turning to Jak.

Something about that struck a chord with Sig, but he was distracted by the sight of Jak giving Rayn a friendly hug. He'd never seen Jak do that to anybody before. In the background, Daxter plopped his chin on a fist and threw a quick, mock-jealous grimace, but he let that little moment pass.

With a nod to them all, Rayn turned to leave.

"Be better than your father," Sig said. He knew it was wishful thinking, but he thought it needed to be said, and out of everyone present, he felt like he ought to be the one to make that comment.

Rayn met his eye and brushed her hand against his as she passed him. Something slipped in between his fingers and he looked sharply after her, but she disappeared out the door and was gone. Looking down, he saw that she had given him a small piece of paper.

"Hey, she forgot Krew's diary," Daxter commented and reached to pick it up.

But instead he pushed a button and the living image of Krew's at his most smug, smirking self flared up in the bar's air to deliver a punch to the gut to every last one of them. Revealing that they'd been had. For a moment Sig's insides froze, thinking that Krew would reveal his part in it, but he did not.

"Like father, like daughter, eh?"

In that stunned first moment, when everyone else stuttered their disbelief, Sig felt his heart sink. None of them looked at him as he unfolded the message from Rayn.

_**We have business to discuss. Come see me.**_

And an address.

"_Like father, like daughter, eh?" _

The words spun around in his mind.

* * *

><p>A few hours later found Jak and Daxter pretty much alone in the Bloody Hook, as the night wore on and the party – browbeaten by the ugly truth – had dispersed to digest and do away with the bad taste that had fouled their victory. The boat back to Haven wouldn't leave until noon the next day, though, so the Demolition Duo didn't worry about going to bed. Just sitting by the bar in each other's company, one as loud as always, one hardly saying a word.<p>

Waiting, perhaps, for some other sign from Rayn to reassure them that things weren't so bad after all.

Of course that didn't happen.

What did happen was that somebody else walked in and ordered a drink, rousing the bartender momentarily from her idle glass polishing. Somebody in a red jacket, who headed straight for the two young men as soon as he had his drink.

"Hello, loser. Here to mope?" Daxter said, grinning from ear to ear.

"No, just looking for a good time," Razer responded. He sat down one stool down and lit a cigarette, easy smile unsuitable for somebody who was standing on top of a sinking ship.

"Look elsewhere," Jak grunted, glaring his warning. Daxter took the cue to slink over on the other side of the blond, to get a hero between himself and the former champion. Even though he had to fight the urge to stay and keep himself between Jak and Razer, instead.

The way that Razer eyed Jak, starting from their first conversation and onwards, made Daxter's fingers twitch. And he knew that Jak didn't like it _at all_, but he wasn't going to let it show. Being protective helped.

"And here I was going to thank you for getting me a free evening," Razer said, plucking the cigarette from his lips to watch Jak with his eyelids just the slightest bit lowered. Curious. _Interested_, in more than a weakness to exploit on the track. It took all Daxter had, to not throw his drink at the guy. "It doesn't happen often. I've been Mizo's man for… too long."

"Well, I would'a figured you'd be on a boat speeding out of here by now," Daxter said, seeing that Jak didn't want to respond.

Razer blew out a cloud of smoke and watched it spread into the already heavy air. He threw a glance at the bartender from the corner of his eye, and the woman wisely backed further away.

"I wouldn't reach the shore alive," he said and sipped his drink, staring off at nothing. "The dear Miss Rayn wouldn't let me."

Jak straightened.

"Rayn wouldn't—"

He cut himself off and squared his jaw. They had all been made to see that they had not known her at all, in the end. Nobody could decide what it meant, that she actually left the data disc behind so that they could find out the truth. It didn't make sense – Ashelin's guess that it was a definite good-bye was the best they could come up with. Ashelin appeared to be satisfied with that explanation, choosing to rejoice that they would soon leave this neon lit whumpbee nest forever – a sentiment shared amongst the racing troop. They could all shake it off, move on, and don't care anymore. In time.

Daxter only cared because he could see how angry Jak was about the betrayal. His trust was too easily gained, sometimes. Nobody else was as surprised, not after the first shock.

The redhead's foot gently tapped against Jak's beneath the edge of the bar. After a moment, Jak returned the slight bump. Then, to Daxter's dismay, he turned his head towards Razer.

"Is she going to be worse than Mizo were?" Jak asked in a low voice.

Razer shook his head, holding his drink up by his fingertips along the rim. The ice cubes daintily clattered against the glass and each other.

"I couldn't say," he told the drink. "Of course… her problem, which will unfortunately be our problem, I assume, is that as a young lady she will have a lot of proving to do to get started. Which means that she will need to do things in a nastier way. And she'll need weight behind her, which is why I'm not getting away – one way or another."

There was no humor or warmth in his smile. Jak shook his head, staring at the drink in front of him, and only Daxter knew that he also sighed.

"But what do we know, yet?" Razer suddenly said, turning his head towards the duo and giving a slanted smile. "She might just as well take better care of Kras than Mizo ever did."

No reply, though Daxter tried to coax some reaction out of Jak by staring at him. It should be Jak's line here, he had to try to say something to prove that he wasn't the least bothered about it, and didn't do something stupid like wonder if it was his fault. Which they couldn't honestly say it wasn't… but then, Jak wasn't the only one who'd helped her rise to power. And it wasn't like they'd had a choice.

"Yeah, well, at least she won't be shouting at the whole city from every TV screen in existence," Daxter finally said to fill the silence.

No verbal reply, but Razer's eye roll and smirk said that he did think that that was an improvement.

This conversation was ruining the last hour of cheering Jak up and distracting him, so Daxter decided that the only way out was to change the subject. So he did, unfortunately unaware of where he steered them.

"Anyway, former hotshot," Daxter said and smirked at Razer's dry look at him past Jak, "since we're on sorta non-enemy terms for the moment, mind if I ask about the name?"

The pause before the response was almost too short to notice. But it was there.

"My name?" Razer said, perfectly calm.

"Yeah, see," Daxter went on, blindly heading straight into a minefield, "all of ya goons came in a set. It's not Racer like _zoom!_" He made a sweeping motion with his hand. "It's 'Razor cuts to the bone', isn't it? And all your buddies are named after sharp things too."

Razer said nothing, just watched Daxter and let him go on. Jak looked up somewhere in the middle of all of this, glancing between the two of them.

"I know your ex-boss was a few cars short of a garage, but it seems way out there to hire people based on their mamas and papas' taste in baby names," Daxter finished up.

Silence.

Razer took a deep draw of the cigarette, making it flare up as the final bit was consumed.

"Very perceptive," he said, smoke billowing out of his mouth as he crushed the remains of the cigarette in a conveniently placed ashtray. "We had a laugh when Kleiver joined up. It was such an amusing coincidence."

"Really? 'Cause for a second I thought that was the only reason he got into your club."

"You really could think so, yes."

Razer took out another cigarette and absently knocked the butt of it against the bar.

"The name," he went on, looking at both of them evenly, "is not the name my parents gave me, but it's my name." Turning his head slightly and closing his eyes, he took out a lighter and lit the cigarette. "You may have gathered that Mizo was a bit of a control freak, who loved his power trips."

And he looked Jak in the eye and, for a moment, seemed to know everything – understand how it was to be trapped in the dark and given a number instead of your name.

"What's your real name, then?" Jak heard himself say, numb and unable not to ask. In the background, Daxter was still wincing.

"Razer," Razer replied, with a bland smile. "It's far too late to change, now."

The cigarette painted a delicate wisp of smoke as he gestured with it, waving their words aside.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he cut both of them off. "But there…" he leaned his chin on the back of his hand, the glowing end of the cigarette precariously close to his cheek. "… There was just one more person who ever asked about it, actually."

The corner of his lips stretched a little as he watched Daxter.

"Is it the hair color that makes you stop and think?" he said. When they stared at him, uneasy, creeping realization struggling not to dawn in their eyes, he gave a final push. "Oh come on, now. I've seen the footage of your race against him, Jak."

Jak's fingers squeezed his glass so hard that his fingers turned white, and Daxter made a disgusted noise.

"Ah, there we are," Razer said, too amused all of a sudden. "Actually, I've been told that I can make a very good impression of him. Want to hear it?"

"No!" Daxter snapped.

"Oh my, maybe I _should_ have tried that during the races. You look like you would've gone off the road."

"Did you race him?" Jak's sudden, quiet question stopped Daxter's angry retort.

Slowly, letting out another cloud of smoke from his mouth, Razer nodded. After a second he took the cigarette from his lips and put it out in the ash tray, returning the half-smoked stick to his pack.

"Years ago, yes," he said, turning on the chair so that he didn't have to twist his neck to look at the two of them anymore. "Officially, it was a friendly race between the champion racers of Haven and Kras." His lips quirked. "Unofficially, the Commander was here to try to find out who Mizo was. The late Baron Praxis wanted to have a piece of information that Krew would kill for."

Daxter shifted, wanting to cut it off, but Jak moved his hand the slightest bit in a signal to wait. That primal, ever revenge-seeking part of him found itself mesmerized with the question of how that race had gone. If that meant that he had to listen to Razer talking about Erol first, he could handle it – for a little bit, at least.

"Mizo knew that, of course, and he knew I was the best person to keep the Commander busy and waste his time – and keep my mouth shut."

Razer's mouth twisted into an unamused sneer.

"Most days Mizo said you're a racing champion, and sometimes he said you're a hooker," he said.

His eyebrows twitched as he said that, not from his own words but from the effect it had on Jak. Daxter saw Razer's reaction and knew what he saw – those wide, blue eyes had never been able to hide a thing, and Daxter knew that he himself only felt half the disgust roiling through Jak in that moment.

It surprised both of them that Razer didn't comment on it. Instead, he shrugged.

"Well, the thing was… Erol's orders were to get information out of me, by any means possible." He snorted. "I know it sounds strange that we… mostly… got along well. It's quite easy to bond when you're both so very angry at your superiors."

"Yeah, well, spare us the details. Cut!" Daxter waved his hands about, glaring murder at Razer for going there in the first place.

Razer raised an eyebrow.

"Not even about how I called him a prostitute to his face?" he asked in a smooth tone.

Daxter's hands fell. So did his jaw. And Jak's too, for that matter. Razer watched them, raising a hand to his lips as he gave a low, soft chuckle.

"How…" Daxter managed, eventually. "How are you still alive?"

"With style, I suppose you could say." Razer chuckled again. "And he started it."

* * *

><p>It had been an eventful day. He wasn't surprised that Erol was angry. Erol was always angry, that much Razer had learnt very quickly, but usually the anger was an ever present undercurrent of everything the man said and did. It didn't control him.<p>

Usually.

In retrospect, he could have been a bit more perceptive, and counted on the Commander having more skills than expected. Even though he was taller, and bulkier, Razer hardly expected to be able to win against Erol in a fight – the much smaller man was built for speed and had military training. He'd have plenty of counters to the motions of one raised on rough street brawls.

Razer had kept that in mind, as well as Erol's intelligence, which had forced him to guard every word more carefully than usual at all times.

He had not, however, considered the idea that Erol might be a pickpocket. Which was why Razer now found himself against the wall with his own butterfly knife to his throat.

Part of him had to marvel at the Commander, though. Perhaps a larger part than he wanted to admit. Erol had launched on him before the door even closed behind them, dragging him into a rough, furious kiss that demanded repayment for what had transpired a few long hours earlier – excruciatingly long with speeches and celebration and useless handshakes and Blitz's grinning face mere inches from getting smashed in.

But Erol had taken a second to tear away and close the apartment door. Razer had noticed it but not taken the chance to bolt. He knew he wouldn't get away, and it'd only get worse. And he was curious, morbidly, foolishly. Then Erol launched on him again, tearing at the red jacket and Razer helped shake it off, taking a calculating step away in case there would be blood splatter.

He always planned for the worst. Knew he at least had his knife if he'd need it.

Or so he had thought.

He wasn't sure, afterwards, if Erol played a part or if it was honest, the single-minded way in which he tore up Razer's shirt, and kissed, and bit. If it was just a part, then it seemed odd that he let Razer's lightning-quick fingers undo the zipper on the Commander's jacket and the buttons of his shirt. They had done this before, however this time Erol was fueled by more rage than lust.

And then Erol shoved Razer against the wall, and suddenly he had the butterfly knife.

"If you wanted to play with that, you could've just asked," Razer said, but he dropped the smooth, seductive tone he would have normally used for a phrase like that.

"Enough!"

The knife pressed harder, enough to let Razer feel his own thundering pulse against the thin, icy edge. He didn't quite manage to hold back a wince, but did not look away from Erol's thinned predator eyes.

"I don't have time for this," Erol snarled. "And don't think I won't slash your pretty face to ribbons if you try to be sassy!"

Playing dumb would be very foolish and very painful. Razer raised his hands a little bit in a pacifying motion.

"Alright, alright," he murmured. "I'm listening."

"No listening. Talk. You know why I'm here."

Razer pressed his palms against the wall. Not his wall – not his apartment. Just something set up to look the part for the Commander, so as to not give him even that grain of truth. And there would have to be another lie.

"Erol. I don't know who Mizo is," Razer said, calmly, holding the glare from the yellow eyes. Erol studied him, unblinking, waiting for a continuation. "He only communicates through distorted recordings of himself."

"I don't believe you." And yet he stood still, only his lips quirking into a scornful sneer. "Are you really that loyal to somebody who doesn't even let you keep your name?"

Razer's eyebrows twitched at the sudden question.

"You noticed. Why, I'm touched."

He got a shove for that.

"I said no sass!" Erol growled.

Razer would have wanted to sneer and make a "Touchy, touchy…" comment, but didn't feel like pushing his luck.

"Listen," Razer said. "Mizo is everywhere in this city."

It was the first time Erol's glare left Razer's face since putting the knife to the older man's throat. A suspicious glance ran across the wall and ceiling, towards the adjacent rooms. Then back.

"Even if I knew, and let it slip," Razer said, "you don't have time to do anything worse than what he'd put me through."

"I could kill you."

"So would he, if I don't do what he says." He dared a small smirk. "Some such things are better than others."

"You're a goddamn whore."

"And you're not?" Razer shook his head and quickly added, as Erol's eyes thinned further, "Our bosses have wasted both of our time, I think."

He felt the pressure of the knife relent as Erol scoffed.

"You didn't seem to think it was a complete waste," the Commander commented.

"I cannot lie to you," Razer said, smoothness returning to his voice as he lied through his teeth. "Now, a question for you, Commander."

Razer reached up and ran his fingertips feather light along Erol's arm. Erol shifted involuntarily, eying the other man. There was a crack in the defense, though.

"Would you like to play with the knife?"

They watched each other. Erol smirked, and Razer returned it.

Later, as Erol left to head back to Haven, he would take note of the inescapable TV screens showing reruns of the races, and Blitz's grinning face. And he would remember that thing Razer said about Mizo being everywhere in Kras City.

It was Razer's little revenge.

Erol's revenge was that he didn't pass that on to Baron Praxis.

* * *

><p>"Well, you did call him… but that's cheating," Daxter commented.<p>

He had yelled "Cut!" several times during the brief recount, again and again making Razer spare them details about the discussion with Erol. The bartender was throwing the trio strange looks.

"Perhaps, but I will still count it as a victory," Razer said. He studied his glass, which he had been sipping at throughout the story. Only a thin line of alcohol remained, along with the ice cubes that lazily slipped against each other. "Well, suppose I must be off. I expect somebody will call me about a date at any moment."

Saying so, he drained the last of the drink and set the glass onto the bar counter as he slipped off the stool. With just a flick of his hand as goodbye, he shifted his weight to turn around and leave.

"Razer," Jak said.

"Hmm?" the older man said, stopping.

Jak stood up to face him, though of course Razer had to look down to meet his gaze.

"You don't have to stay," Jak said. "Rayn can't get you if you're on the boat with us tomorrow."

For just the briefest moment, Razer looked surprised. But then it vanished as he softly snorted and shook his head, eyes closed.

"There is nothing for me anywhere else," he said, turning to leave. "But you _are_ a darling for offering."

Daxter groaned at the compliment, but Jak didn't even acknowledge it. When he spoke, it was as if he hadn't even heard it.

"How did your race against Erol end?"

Razer looked around with a shrug.

"There are recordings, and they're easy to find if you want to see them," he said.

"I'm asking you," Jak shot back, eyebrows lowering.

For a moment it looked as if Razer would just slip out and leave them hanging, but he paused with his hand on the door.

"The way you race in Haven," he said, "you'd say it's very different from combat racing, yes?"

Looking back at those first races, Jak had been very glad that he had practice from the Wasteland with having wheels on the ground, and with shooting while driving. He nodded, mutely. And Razer gave that smug sneer he hadn't shown since the Blue Eco cup.

"Well," he said, "let's just say that the late Commander was so very, very angry with me for a reason."

With that, he disappeared into the night.

He walked along, gazing up through the neon halos of the street lights and advertisement boards. It was a quieter hour than usual, brief as it was. There were still plenty people out and about as well as cars zooming past on the road, but there was a confused tension in the air that was almost tangible. The conversations were not as loud, the honking of car horns from near and far sounded quick and fearful rather than annoyed.

He didn't really have any particular place to go, hadn't for the whole day. All of his associates were either hiding or fleeing as best they could, or waiting it out like he was. Some more resigned than others. Razer didn't really feel much at the moment. He'd thought that the world would feel more rocked off its pillars the day Mizo died, but after the Blue Eco cup he had found himself waiting for it. Mizo had been furious, and he'd have to make a move.

Having butted heads with Jak on the racetrack, Razer had seen that Mizo could very well meet his match.

And now what?

Rayn was an unwritten story, and at the moment everyone was scrambling to figure out what was happening. Not all the families would accept her readily, but she'd had supporters even before the races. Without friends, she'd have been dead long before she could rope in Jak and the others to help her win the bet that her father had made.

Not having met Krew, Razer still had to admire his ability to plan ahead.

He wandered on, until he realized that he was being followed. It was just a feeling of being watched, then an occasional glance over his shoulder revealed that a tall shadow was tailing him. Didn't try to be very sneaky about it, either.

So it was going to be like that, after all?

He slipped into an alleyway and waited, hand drifting over the pocket where his butterfly knife was. If it came to that, he at least had enough dignity to not go out without a fight.

A huge silhouette blocked out the street lights outside the alley.

"You have a meeting with Rayn," a deep, rumbling voice said. It was more of a growl.

Razer squinted at the shadow and tilted his head to the side as well as up. The snarl unnerved him, because he wasn't stupid, and yet he had a strange feeling that the underlying rage wasn't aimed at him. The moment he made out the silhouette, that feeling grew stronger.

A spark of intrigue flared up.

"Hm," Razer said. His hand drifted to his side to rest at his hip. "I wasn't expecting you."

There was no response. With his jaw set so tight it hurt, Sig waved at the former champion to follow him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: Thanks to spargusfastestracer on tumblr for helping me come up with a name for Rayn's aide. He _was_ this close to being called Aiden, tho'._

_Razer's last name is an homage to Nashidesei, who thought of it in the olden days. It somehow even ended up on this site's "Characters involved in this fanfic" pick-list by mistake. Oops. _

_It's German for "danger."_

* * *

><p><span>Chapter three, Chain<span>

Like most cities – Spargus had proven to be a surprising exception, once Razer had actually visited it for the championship – Kras had different sections for different kinds of people. The borders weren't always obvious for the uninitiated. Mostly it showed in how the houses were built. They were all apartment buildings, of course, because Kras had limited space to work with and villas were therefore out of the question, but balconies were a good sign that you had left the slum far behind you.

The bars called themselves restaurants, and there were fewer neon signs. The music changed from pounding to more refined tunes played with violins, and there was less drunk singing and laughing. Here, the really bad stuff – in some ways worse than in the slums – went on behind closed doors and lowered shutters.

The traffic didn't change much, of course. But here, Sig stood out like a sore thumb, even though he wasn't wearing the armor Razer had seen him in when he first appeared in the city in the middle of one of Blitz's mocking interviews with Jak's team. It wasn't his skin color – though that certainly contributed – but rather the way he moved. Everyone else clung together in groups, seeking cover from the fear of being mugged. They were also far better dressed. Suspicious stares followed the rough giant of a man that stomped up the street.

Razer found himself amused by it. As far as he could tell, people hardly noticed that he was following the strange intruder. He would normally at least be recognized as a famous racer, but his air and appearance also made him fit in better in areas like this. Mostly because he felt right at home here. Mizo had been generous in that way – and it had suited a champion.

Of course, Razer felt just as at home in the seedier areas too. That hadn't required training.

Sig didn't say a word the whole way, and while Razer felt tempted to throw a few teasing jibes at the man out of habit, the big Wastelander wasn't his type. His mind was also a bit too preoccupied with contemplating what waited for him at the other end of this walk – and wondering why the Wastelander was fetching him there anyway. He only needed to look at his guide to know that there would be no answers given, however. Experience also told him that it may be safer to stay ignorant.

A few blocks into the area, Sig stopped by one of the big apartment houses and punched in a long code to open the gate. It led into a dark hallway that automatically lit up when they entered. The elevators were both in use, and Sig didn't stop to wait for them. Instead he just went for the stairs, and Razer followed with a shrug.

Two flights of stairs later they entered a corridor with numbered doors at fair distances from each other, hinting at the sizes of the apartments. Sig strode down the way and stopped by one of the doors, where he knocked and then took a step back so that he was clearly visible through the peeping hole.

A few seconds passed, and then the door was opened by a thin, middle-aged man with a notepad in his pocket and a pair of thin glasses balancing on his nose. He looked like what one would get when taking every cliché about rigid female secretaries and gender-bending them.

He gave Sig a nod, then looked outside and gave Razer a pleasant smile.

"Welcome, Sir. Miss Rayn is looking forward to seeing you. I'm her aide, Chilton."

Razer made a non-committal sound. The man exuded an air of snooty stuffiness that, with just a glance, made the racer feel bored.

Chilton glanced back to Sig and made a motion at him.

"Show him in."

With a grunt, Sig entered and Razer followed, passing the aide without a second glance. Inside, the apartment was of the typical stale, functionalist Kras style, with a long straight corridor with rooms along the way, facing each other. The two men headed down the corridor towards a door in the back.

Everything from wall to ceiling was painted or draped in soft, gentle colors and the paintings on the walls depicted only pleasant landscapes and flower arrangements. There was an atmosphere of elegance to everything.

However, the floor creaked something awful – just the fact that it was made of wood said something about the cost of the place. In this steel and concrete city, natural materials did not come cheap. And a creaky floor also doubled as a safety insurance, making it harder for intruders to perform a surprise attack.

Mizo had kept tabs on Rayn, of course, and kept Razer informed enough for him to know that this part of the city had not been their rival's home turf before. But now she had taken a leap upwards, and she had moved in very quickly, yet efficiently. There was not a painting on the wall that tilted the slightest bit, every potted plant in every room placed perfectly. If he hadn't known she'd lived in simpler quarters before, Razer might not have picked up on the air of a new home.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Sig knocked on the door with quite a bit more force than necessary.

Razer noted that there was an indentation in the wall, at just the right height for a punch mark. He glanced up at Sig, and pondered the fact that there was most likely concrete behind the wallpaper.

"Enter," came Rayn's voice from the other side of the door.

Sig pulled it open and stepped inside and to the side. When Razer had entered, the Wastelander closed the door behind him.

All things considered, Razer had half expected Rayn to stand by the window, sipping tea from a flowery cup. Instead, she stood behind a neat wooden desk set in the middle of the room, upon which heaps of paper and writing material laid lined up. Arms neatly folded, a businesswoman's smile on her lips. The heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, so that only the electric light from the ceiling illuminated the room – not that it would have made much difference, as the outside was dark and lit only by the neon signs and streetlights. It did give the room a claustrophobic atmosphere, however, despite the nice, soft carpet and light colors on pretty much everything.

It was clearly an office, what with the desk being the main piece of furniture, and the bookshelves lining the walls – not filled with books, but ring binders.

Razer stopped a little ways away from the desk, keeping the piece between him and Rayn.

"Welcome," she said. "Thank you for not smoking."

"I put that off during important meetings," he replied with a smooth smile. He cocked his head to his side. "So. Now how should I interpret your signals when you bring me into your home like this?"

"I'm not one to waste talents such as yours, Mr. Gefahr," Rayn said.

Razer's eyebrows twitched.

"My, my, you are a very talented woman yourself, to have dug that up," he said. Then he chuckled and shrugged. "I am not so rude as to make assumptions about having a choice in this matter."

"I'm glad that we understand each other." Rayn walked around the desk, and the two of them shook hands. She smiled pleasantly up at Razer. "I welcome you informing me about things you liked and disliked about your last employer. I prefer to have satisfied employees."

The floor creaked behind Razer's back, and he could easily imagine Sig shifting his weight. Even that somehow seemed to convey quiet fury, and Razer felt certain that it wasn't just his imagination. Whichever was the case, it did earn Rayn's attention. She took a step to the side so that she could look straight at the Wastelander.

"Ah yes," she said, as if just remembering that he was even there. "You may go. But be sure to follow your instructions, understand?"

"Yes, alright," Sig growled as he turned to leave.

"What was that?" Rayn said, her voice hard as steel.

Sig flinched as if the words struck him like a lash. The glance over his shoulder was that of a furious, chained animal.

"Yes, _Miss Rayn_," he said through his teeth.

"Better."

The door closed behind Sig. A moment later there was a hard smash from the other side. Rayn shook her head and sighed as she sat down in her chair, absently gathering up a few of the papers before her. She knocked them against the desk to stack them up.

"No smart comments, if you please," she said without looking at Razer. "I assure you that I've got him under control."

Razer chose his words very carefully. It wouldn't do to make your new boss angry on the first day, after all, and he had a feeling that this was a very delicate subject.

"May I just advice a bit of caution?" he said, looking towards the door. "If pushed too far, he will leave a smoking crater behind."

"Oh yes, certainly." Rayn's lips twisted in a cool smile. "But it won't be anywhere but where I point."

Razer's eyebrows twitched, but he refrained from commenting on how she must have some amazing dirt on the Wastelander, since she was so confident.

"I'll take your word for it," he said instead in a diplomatic tone, and inclined his head towards the door. "I see there is no need to worry about heavy muscle."

"No."

Rayn flicked through the paper stack and then set it aside. Every move she made was measured and thoughtful. Businesslike. She was ice, where Mizo had been explosive and loud. It was something new, and Razer still wasn't sure whether he liked it or not. Mizo had made him seethe and clench his fist in his pocket on many occasions throughout the years – but was the devil you knew worse than the devil you didn't?

Well, if he wanted to keep breathing, he had better just hang on and go with it.

"Sig is worth five of Mizo's old muscle combined," Rayn said. She folded her fingers into a little platform and daintily rested her chin on it as she studied Razer. "Ten, if we're talking about intelligence."

"You're being unfair to him," Razer said with a soft chuckle.

Rayn responded with a little smile. It was an amused smile, which was good. But it was also a silent, merciless question. It wasn't difficult for Razer to catch on.

"If you wish to keep him from getting into fights with your own men," Razer said, "there are a few of Mizo's old guard that you don't want, and should probably weed out immediately. For example, Shiv and Edje might pass, but Cutter almost got a walking stick through his brain for getting into Kleiver's mechanic's face."

"A walking stick?" Rayn said, raising an elegant eyebrow.

Razer shrugged.

"The mechanic is a cripple, and has dark skin to boot," he said. "Cutter doesn't know when to quit about such things."

"Ah, well. That disqualifies him, especially under the current circumstances."

Rayn flicked through the papers again, took one out and put it beside the heap. Razer wasn't close enough to see what was on it, but it wasn't that hard to guess.

"Current?" he mildly said.

"Unfortunately, I'm afraid that there is no second chances given at the hiring process."

"I can't say I'll miss him," Razer said with a shrug. He glanced at the door. A concern that had been fizzling in the back of his head refused to be ignored any longer. "Offhand, however… isn't there a risk that our troublesome golden boy will come looking for his friend?"

The pause lasted hardly more a fraction of a second, but Razer still noticed it.

"There is no need to worry about Jak and the others," Rayn said. She only looked up as she continued, "I assure you that Sig will not want to be found."

Razer didn't press the issue, only giving an elegant, slanted smile and an understanding nod in response. Clearing her throat to make absolutely clear that that particular discussion was over, Rayn absently knocked the paper stack against the desk again.

"But let's forget everyone else for the time being, and discuss your position," she said.

They – or rather, Rayn – hammered out the basic practicalities after that. It pleased her that Razer made it clear that he fully understood his position, and did not make a fuss. Not that she presented any difficulties for him. He was too useful, too intelligent, and too much of a symbol of Kras City as the racing king, even after his recent losses. He was _theirs_, after all. Jak might have won the latest championship, but he was an outsider. They'd get him next time.

Once Razer had all the information Rayn felt he currently needed, she sent him away. It was very late by then, and she sent Chilton home as well. He, of course, showed no sign of being tired or bothered by having had to wait on her for nothing but a goodnight. He left a tray with a pot of hot herbal tea, a waiting cup and a small plate with neatly sliced lemons, and went away with a polite nod and agreement to come in early the next morning.

Rayn waited until she had heard the apartment door close, then went to lock it herself. Returning to her office, she poured herself a cup of tea and squeezed a bit of lemon into the flowery cup.

She allowed a smile at herself. It had been a good day.

Of course, there was still a lot of work to do. To little surprise, not all the crime lords had been prepared to accept her father and Mizo's bet as a binding contract. It had been quite the discussion.

Some of the dissenters would have to be dealt with. But that was a concern for another day. The whole building was heavily guarded and she was already gaining strength. With Razer, a lot of manpower would follow simply because a lot of Mizo's men had nobody else to turn to.

And then there was Sig.

She set the cup aside and opened a locked drawer in the desk, pulling out one of the many data disks her father had left her. All of them contained advice, plans, or as with the "will", ways to help her climb. This one, too, was special.

It took a little while to write in the password, since it was nearly thirty symbols long. Finally the little light above the keypad turned green, and she pushed the "Start" button, just as she had done many times before.

The data disk made a whirring sound, and she placed it on the desk.

With a soft blip, a flash of light came from the small projector and a transparent image of Krew appeared in the air, taking up a large amount of the space in the room. He threw out his arms in a bombastic greeting gesture, starting off with a big grin for the first couple of sentences.

"Hello, Sig. I'm going to assume that you're not listening to this while on the run from Mizo with my little Rayn." Krew's eyebrows lowered and his voice became a guttural growl. "But if you are, you had better take good, good care of her."

He swept around in a wide arc, circling the now empty spot on the carpet where Sig had stood earlier in the evening. Sig hadn't let Krew get behind him even though it was just a recording, turning to follow his every sweep. Hands clenching, ready for a useless strike that was never delivered. Until he left the room and punched the wall, at least. Rayn sighed at the memory of that. They would have to talk about that kind of behavior.

"Mm, now then, in case things did not go as planned, I'm sure you already know I did prepare an antidote for both of you, just in case. You see, I couldn't possibly leave my little princess without a knight."

And a toothy smirk. Sig had just stared at him, eyebrows creeping lower and lower as his lips drew away from his tightly clenched teeth in a silent snarl.

"But!" Krew threw up his arms and did a playful little pirouette in the air. Rayn had always admired how her father could be so flippant about his physical condition, and used his technology to make himself so much more graceful than he could be without it. "Like I said, I expect everything went smoothly. But, even if you don't need to protect Rayn from Mizo, you will help her with everything else she wants. Oh no, no, no! Hold it right there."

He raised a plump hand heavy with rings.

"You watch that temper, old bean. Even if you smash this data disk, there are copies of the interesting part. Rayn has several, of course, but she doesn't even know where half of the rest are. And should anything happen to her…"

Krew's voice lowered to a dangerous snarl.

"… every last one will be sent out to people you'd prefer never found out about this."

He snapped his fingers and disappeared. Instead, a smaller image appeared of him, hovering in the air and looking at something. The sound of a door creaking open made him turn his head, and an image of Sig walked into existence.

"I have it," Sig said, pulling a bag from his belt. He opened it and drew out a pitch black flower on a long, slithering stalk.

Black shade.

"Flowers for me, 'ey?" Krew said with a toothy grin as he drifted closer.

He plucked the prize from Sig's hand and studied it, making sure that it was the real thing. Satisfied, he looked down on the silent Wastelander.

"I'm, mm, impressed you actually managed to get one." He smirked, nodding. "Good to see that I'm as good a judge as always. You _are_ an investment."

"Told you I can get any dirty job done," Sig replied with a slanted smirk.

The small images shattered and the full-sized Krew returned, rapping his fingertips against each other.

"Well Sig, I wouldn't put you through this for anybody but Rayn, you know that, 'ey?" He tilted forwards, his little eyes thin. "I'm sure we understand each other, from a business perspective."

He lingered like that for a moment before spinning around, suddenly smiling.

"Sorry about not putting a bow on him, Rayn dear," Krew said with a throaty chortle. "I'm afraid that he would resist that. Ah well…"

Rayn smiled sadly, feeling her heart swell at the familiar, smug grin her father sent her from the past. It was a winking grin for just the two of them, when he had something planned that he knew she would love.

"Well, my darling, he's all yours."

And with that, her father's image disappeared. A couple of seconds later, the data disk automatically switched off. Rayn picked it up and stood for a moment, just looking at it, before pressing it to her chest. He had truly planned for everything to give her a fair start, but the continuation she would have to spin herself. None of his gifts were light, and she would use every advantage he had offered.

True that she had thought him too soft at times, but then again it's quite natural for an ambitious child to want to surpass their parent.

Sig would never call her "kitten" again. She would have to live with that.

And so would Sig.


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's note: Sig's tattoo is on his concept art for Jak X. Only "lif" is visible, and obviously more letters than E could fit, but let's go with "life" for the sake of discussion, eh?_

* * *

><p><span>Chapter four, Guilty<span>

_Jak made it. They're fine. Nobody died. They won't be angry enough that it's worth letting that viper have her way. She can't control me._

He had thought so, and the mantra had grown louder and louder in his mind the closer he got to home. The words of both Rayn and Krew burned in his memory, lighting not fear but an all-consuming rage. How dared they even think they had any power over him?

Rayn could reach out and spread copies of that recording as much as she wanted. It was no secret that he'd been spying on Praxis' Haven and needed a way in. People could grumble and Kleiver would get pissed about it coming to light because his part would be revealed too, but it'd be forgotten. Sig knew that the people that mattered the most would be surprised, but they wouldn't judge him. Rayn couldn't intimidate him.

But Damas could.

And Damas was unforgiving.

"_Poisoned_?"

And it just went downhill from there.

Sig had known that somebody would have to tell Damas the truth at some point, preferably as soon as possible – because the repercussions would be dire if the King found out too much later. Or more dire than they already looked.

Sig had also known that if he wanted to come clean with Jak and the others, there was no getting around coming clean with Damas as well.

But he never got further than revealing the truth of why his friends had taken part in the championship.

"She forced Jak to do her dirty work?! She had _all _of them at her beck and call? If I ever get that little witch within arm's reach…! Vultures! All of them! _Poison_! Of all the disgusting…!"

Sig had never seen Damas so angry. He paced back and forth in front of the throne, words spewing out of his mouth, slamming the butt of his gun into the floor. Every hard clack and every single word hit Sig like waves of icy water. As he mutely watched his King, ice tendrils seeped into his heart to choke all the rebellious thoughts.

For a little while, Damas was so absorbed in his ranting about filthy, backstabbing tactics that he seemed to forget Sig. It didn't last, though.

Sig winced when Damas whirled at him.

There was no mercy for any accomplice in the King's eyes.

"Did you know? Did Kleiver know?" Damas stomped down the steps with murder in his eyes, jabbing a finger at Sig's chest as he held his gaze. Sig couldn't bear to see that fury, but he couldn't look away either.

"Not Kleiver. They told me," he said, voice sounding strange in his ears. It might have given away underlying truths to Damas, had he been in a normal state of mind, but the King was far beyond his usual cool, levelheaded self.

"_Why did you not tell me_?!"

Training alone kept Sig rooted in place. Afterwards, he wasn't sure how he had even managed to remain upright.

"Jak didn't want—," Sig managed.

Damas had his communicator in his hand before Sig even got to the third word, smashing down several buttons. There was a beep.

"Yes, Da—," came Jak's voice from the speaker.

"Get up here _right now_!" Damas snarled.

Just before he shut the communicator off, without waiting for a response, Daxter whimpering "_Oh_ _snap…_" made it through the link. Sig's gut dropped as Damas's burning gaze returned to him.

"What were they poisoned with?" Damas demanded.

A dark, sick hope flared up.

"Night shadow," Sig lied. Damas paused and then grunted acknowledgement.

The name was similar enough to black shade that if mentioned, Jak and Daxter would probably not notice the difference. As much as he respected the two of them, neither one was a stickler for details. More importantly, it was a poisonous flower which – though now near extinct – had been native to a chain of islands near Haven. It had properties similar to black shade, and the antidote was just as hard to create.

If Damas learned that the poison had come from the Wasteland, he'd make the connection instantly. Really, it had surprised Sig that nobody else seemed to – but it could be that they had been too busy worrying to really think about it, after Ashelin explained about what her alchemists had found out about the wine bottle.

It in no way guaranteed that Damas would never find out, but it bought Sig some time.

As soon as Jak and Daxter appeared in the elevator – one with his face grimly set in stone, the other fidgeting, both bracing themselves in their own way – Damas dismissed Sig to turn his frustration towards a target that was closer to home. Despite the chaos in his own head, Sig had the presence of mind to give the boys a stiff, hopefully encouraging nod. Jak didn't even look up, completely focused on Damas. He tended to get like that when it came to the King, had been like that ever since the truth was revealed. Right then, though, it stung like a metal head stinger's barb.

Daxter gave a twitching, nervous little smirk, and then Sig was past them. He stepped on the elevator and pushed the button to take him down. The layers of the tall structure flew past in a blur before his unseeing eyes.

It was over.

Everything was over.

The familiar, sandy streets melded together before him as he stepped outside and began his walk. People everywhere, talking, exchanging goods. Together, with purpose. Familiar sights, familiar smells. His mind felt numb, and yet oddly open as every sense became heightened – the sounds, the sand slipping under his feet, even the tint of sweat and salty winds on his lips. Trying to take all of it in while he still could.

Afterwards, he wasn't sure how he got anything "productive" done. That he had instructions from Rayn helped – for better or worse. She had been very detailed. And even then there were parts he had to make his own decisions about.

Winning the championship had earned Jak a hefty price sum, which he had promptly split between all his competing friends. It wasn't exactly surprising, but it was a touching move. Ashelin and Torn refused out of sheer pride, of course, until Daxter dumped a bag of credits each on their heads once they all got off the ship to Haven. And then he and Jak ran off before they could be returned.

Sig had left his share in his apartment as soon as he got back to Spargus together with the Demolition Duo, before he went to see Damas. Now he returned there to fetch it, snatching it off the table without throwing a second glance around at the place that had been his own for years. The simple, undecorated two rooms with just a table and a couple of chairs, a box of tools for cleaning his equipment, a water urn and a sleeping mat.

The dry knocking sound of the door closing behind him as he left rung in his ears.

Absentminded, staring straight ahead as he walked, he pulled out his communicator and made a call to Freedom HQ, requesting that the air train that had brought him, Jak and Daxter back home would wait for him a little bit after it had refueled. The operator agreed in a bored voice, commenting that it wasn't a problem since the transporter needed some repairs as well.

He hoped he could avoid everybody he knew before he had to leave.

As soon as he entered the vehicle pit he spotted Kleiver, lumbering around yelling at a line of stone-faced mechanics for slacking off in his absence.

Sig had to call to Kleiver three times before the huge man noticed the intruder over his own shouting. The annoyance at being interrupted changed immediately when Sig made a motion to the bag he held, and Kleiver dragged the other Wastelander off to a more private corner of the parking area – to the obvious relief of the mechanics.

Arms crossed, Sig silently waited as Kleiver counted the money and took out what he was owed for the bronze camellia. There was still a fair bit left after that.

"Too bad for me hero boy is such a softie," Kleiver commented with a pleased grin as he handed the much lighter bag back to Sig. "Would'a been fun to have ya sweatin' it off for the next five years."

Sig forced a bland smile and grunted, because a lack of reaction would be suspicious. It wasn't a very good response, though – Kleiver peered at him for a second, but then just turned away and stormed towards the miserable mechanics for more verbal punishment.

For a moment Sig just stood there looking at the scene, with the ragged men and women standing there, some of them swaying and stifling yawns. Kleiver had obviously dragged everyone in, including those who worked the night shift, to take the abuse.

And then Kleiver finished off with a gruff conclusion that at least the place hadn't fallen apart, and since they had at least managed that much and he was thirsty for some real beer after weeks of that Kras piss, they should all go have a drink together. Clenched jaws loosened in grins and the line dispersed as the mechanics laughed, slapping Kleiver's back as they welcomed him back. He grinned too, and then led them off into the city.

Rough, rude and cruel, but not truly mean-spirited. Much like Spargus itself.

Sig fastened the bag on his belt and went to find his Sand Shark. It was nearing that time of the day when it got unbearably hot, and with the mechanics gone the car pit was nearly deserted. There was nobody who paid any heed to him driving out.

He needed a fight. Beneath the smothering bitterness, a sea of rage bubbled with no outlet. But no metal heads or marauders showed up to serve as stress relief. The drive towards the desert ruins was short, and it would have been boring if he hadn't been absorbed in gazing on the vast expanses of rolling hills of sand. The sun blasted down and painted the landscape in painfully bright colors, forcing him to squint. He flew across the sand, careening down slopes and past rocky outcrops and vibrant green cacti. Absently, he noted that it was almost time to harvest the fruit some of the prickly plants produced.

That particular sweet, hard-shelled fruit spoiled quickly after harvesting and were too difficult to preserve, so they represented a rare, yearly feast. It was one of the very few luxuries the desert readily offered.

But he would not be there for it.

Mountains rose up in front of him and he crossed one of the few streams in the desert. Then the pale shells of long abandoned houses came into view. There was a long story behind that village, a failed attempt at expanding Spargus many, many years ago. And plenty of legends, to boot. At least it still had purpose, since leaper lizards loved the place and that made it easy to catch new ones.

Sig drove around it, up a hill where the cliffs offered shadow. There he parked and swung his legs over the side of the barebones cage of the car, resting his boots on the shaded, but still hot sand. The wind howled through the empty window holes of the dilapidated buildings, tossing little clouds of sand here and there. He could see movement down there, twitchy shadows ducking around, carefully looking for food. Lizards.

Even in the shade, the heat was stifling. Every breath tore at the moisture in his throat. First rule of being out in the desert was to not open your mouth more often than necessary, both because of the sand and because it drew more water out of your body. Daxter had always had trouble with that. Covering the mouth only helped marginally.

Sig unhooked his water flask and took a deep gulp from it.

There were things he had to do. He didn't want to go through with any of it, and that made it difficult to decide where to start. But he had to begin somewhere.

Putting the flask down, he reached under one of his pauldrons and opened the latch. The metal head skull slipped off his shoulder and into his grip. He looked at it with all its scratches, and the eye sockets seemed to glare back. That kind of armor material wasn't a unique thing in Spargus, but in Haven it had made him stand out in an even more intimidating way. Krew had liked it that way.

Rayn did not.

It was insane doing this out here, but he had no choice. He couldn't do it in Spargus. Somebody would see him, and he refused to leave any part of himself in Haven.

He dropped the pauldron on the passenger seat and unlatched the other one. Standing up, he took his Peace Maker from his back and leaned it against the car so that it was out of the way.

Bit by bit he shed his armor. Even with the sleeveless shirt he wore beneath it and the rest of his clothes remaining, he felt naked once he had finished. The desert wind felt raw against his sweat matted skin.

Alright.

Next step.

He hunched forward for a moment, feeling nausea building in his gut. Sheer willpower forced it back, but it took him several minutes to gather himself enough to continue.

Gritting his teeth, he reached into one of the bags by his belt and pulled out his war amulet.

Just held it. Turned it over and over. Rubbed his thumbs over it, studying all the little kinks and indentations. He'd had it since he was fifteen, and had passed the tests to become a full citizen of the city he had grown up in. The city that would always come to his aid if he pushed the button on the amulet. There hadn't been many times when he had to activate it, but he wouldn't ever have gone anywhere without it.

Sighing, he looked up and stared off at the horizon.

The thought was there, to just disappear into the desert. But the mere idea of suicide was revolting to him, even when the alternative was a life of degradation. He was not yet that desperate, though a voice in the back of his mind said that he might very well become such, and wish he had been allowed to die in the Wasteland. He didn't want to think about that.

And if he didn't return to Kras like Rayn had decreed, she would make sure everyone saw that recording Krew had saved for her. Then Damas, Jak, Tess and everyone else would remember Sig as a traitor. He could at least live on as a better person in their memory.

He glanced at his right wrist, and pushed his glove upwards so that the simple tattoo became fully visible. "Life", emblazoned in his skin the day he'd earned his war amulet. It was a family thing. His mother had had the same when she met his father, who had liked it and taken it on, too.

He let the glove slip back, smoothening the rough cloth over the single word.

Closing his good eye, he grasped the war amulet in both hands and ripped it apart, just barely managing to suppress a snarl. The hard snap burrowed through his brain.

Looking down, he saw two pieces still sticking together, the third one free apart from the wires that connected the combined beacon.

Rayn had only told him to toss it away. That made it obvious that she knew some basic things, but she didn't understand. He couldn't just throw it away. It was a device that could be used against Spargus, in the wrong hands. If marauders or any of the more intelligent metal heads got their hands on it, they could easily use it to set a trap.

He walked some ways away from the car and kneeled down, letting the broken amulet slide from his hands into the sand. Standing up, he returned to the Sand Shark and grabbed his Peace Maker.

The familiar flare crackled to life as he pulled and held the trigger. He waited for it to build to a furiously hissing ball of lightning, then released and watched it fly through the air. Sand flew in all directions as it struck the ground and exploded in a blinding flash, leaving a messy crater filled with warped lumps of molten sand. A burnt smell filled the air.

And all that remained of the war amulet was a twisted piece of slag. Sig waited a little while for it to cool enough to grab the remains from the small crater and bury the destroyed amulet in the sand. The next storm would unearth it, but it was something he needed to do.

With nothing else left, he bundled up his armor with a piece of rope and drove off along the mountainside. There was a cave opening nestled amongst the cliff, leading into a giant cavern that had to be occasionally cleaned out of metal heads.

It was also where, in a freak accident, Daxter had ended up transforming back into a human.

Just a little ways inside, the path was sharply cut through by a wide ravine. One needed a Dune Hopper to cross, but that wasn't Sig's intention. He drove up to the edge and stopped the car.

Stepping out of it, he grabbed his armor and, clenching his eye shut, threw it into the abyss. The sunlight did not reach very far in, and he imagined that the armor disappeared out of sight long before he heard the first, distant clatter echo up towards him. It rang out again and again as the armor slammed into rock and tumbled on and on into oblivion.

He was back in the car, revving up the engine before the sharp sounds from below had quieted.

As he drove, he called in to check on the air train, learning that it was just about ready to go.

Returning to the city, he parked his car and quickly returned outside. The car pit was still abandoned, and nobody called to him.

He'd have to wait in Haven for a few days before there would be another ship to Kras, he knew that. In the meantime he could just stay in the apartment he had there. He'd have to call Damas and lie that Freedom HQ wanted him for something for a week or two.

That would make it take even longer before anybody realized that he was gone.

He boarded the air train and it took off as he crashed on one of the benches inside, head dropping as he rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle.


End file.
